


Watch My Enemies Get Destroyed

by fur_claws_and_eyeballs



Series: Watch My Enemies Get Destroyed [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abduction, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Background Alan Deaton, Bittersweet Ending, Blood and Injury, Could be more than friends if you squint, Dead Laura Hale, Dead Sheriff Stilinski, Hurt No Comfort, Interrogation, Magic!Stiles, No Slash, Not A Fix-It, Not Beta Read, POV Peter Hale, Peter Hale & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Restraints, Revenge, Untrustworthy Alan Deaton, dark!stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:09:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26534899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fur_claws_and_eyeballs/pseuds/fur_claws_and_eyeballs
Summary: He looks exactly as Peter had seen him last. Except everything is all wrong, the clothes too baggy on his thin frame, face gaunt and drawn in grief. Unnaturally bright eyes rimmed in black glare against pale skin. There is a fiery determination there, but all warmth is gone from his expression.  He holds himself with equal parts stiff exhaustion and predatory grace. Peter is enthralled...and filled with trepidation.“Stiles?”
Series: Watch My Enemies Get Destroyed [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2104419
Comments: 16
Kudos: 182





	Watch My Enemies Get Destroyed

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to go on record to warn you guys, I am an artist, not a writer. I have never written anything outside of a school assignment. This is my first attempt at a fic, I know, I'm sorry, It's gonna be ROUGH, but thanks for being here!
> 
> Let me know what you think of my first foray into fandom writing in the comments below!

_But now I'm done runnin', got another thing comin'_

_Watch my enemies get destroyed_

_..._

_Thinkin' that they've won,_

_It's only just begun_

* * *

Peter wakes with a start to the rank smell of sweat and fear mixed with old blood. It’s cloying, sticking in his throat and making him dizzy. Or perhaps that's a side effect of whatever he'd been sedated with. More importantly, his overwhelmed nose and blurred vision render him effectively blind in the low light. Peter recognizes the panic clawing at his chest and takes a moment to breathe and get his heart rate under control. Panicking leads to mistakes, and he’s not in the business of making mistakes.

It’s another few minutes of measured breathing and rapid blinking before his sight begins to clear. Looking around Peter finds himself in a dank cellar, more cinder blocked hole in the ground than a basement. The square room is roughly twenty feet across, lit by a single poor excuse for a lightbulb. There are hooks hanging by thick chains from the ceiling and dark stains on the floor that give him a pretty clear idea of its purpose. The question now is who or  _ what _ has brought him here. 

Peter turns his attention to his body next, taking stock of his aches and pains. With the adrenaline of his near panic wearing off, he’s become painfully aware of the throbbing in his head. Whichever method had been used to get him into this hole seems to have left a nasty hangover. Flexing and twisting minutely he can feel wolfsbane infused bindings keeping his arms secured behind his back and his legs bound together. The wolfsbane serves its dual purpose of preventing him from healing or shifting to escape. He’s propped up against the wall farthest from a single steel door. Solid chains threaded through the ropes keep him tethered in place. 

Time moves slowly when you have no way of tracking it. Intermittently Peter attempts to loosen the ropes on his wrists with little luck. The ache shifts into a burn as his skin is rubbed raw, evolving into white-hot pain as the wolfsbane begins cutting into his flesh, blood sluggishly seeping onto the floor. If he can just get his wrists free, the surprise alone may give him a fighting chance when the time comes.

His focus is broken by a muffled sound coming from beyond the door. The slamming of a car door, he thinks, then the screech of rusted metal against metal. He suspects that he’s being held in one of the abandoned industrial areas around Beacon Hills, much to his annoyance. No points for creativity. His musing is interrupted by the sound of something heavy tumbling down a flight of stairs. There is a muffled scream as the weight lands hard on the floor at the bottom. Another prisoner it seems. 

Moments later bolts are unlocked and the heavy door is pushed open just enough for someone to be thrown across the floor. Though he strains Peter can’t catch a glimpse of their captor in the darkened hallway. The new arrival barely has time to roll to a stop before the door is slammed shut again, bolts sliding into place sounding like gunshots in the otherwise silent space. His cellmate, a woman he realizes, is breathing raggedly and curled up near the wall to his left. Her hands and ankles are bound with rope not unlike himself, although she seems to have been conscious for her abduction. He wonders what she did to deserve being thrown into a cell with the likes of him.

He doesn’t have to wonder for long. Once the woman has her shallow breaths under control, she begins checking her bindings and muttering curses. With great effort, she eventually squirms until her back is against the wall, and with pained gasps that speak of bruised ribs, maneuvers herself upright. Leaning against the wall she finally takes stock of the room around her. Shocked recognition crosses their faces simultaneously. Flashing wild angry eyes Kate Argent hisses,  _ “ _ Well  _ fuck  _ me _.” _ The venom in her voice pairs nicely with the rage flooding his senses.

“Well well well, look what the cat dragged in,” He rumbles, voice cracking with disuse. She sends him a hate-filled glare but says nothing else. Were it anyone else in the world, they could come up with a plan to escape or drag themselves together to pluck feeble fingers at each other’s bindings. Instead, they sit motionless, quiet, seething with barely contained rage. Mutually assured destruction. He only hopes that if their captor intends to kill them, he gets to watch Kate go first. 

It’s another matter of losing time in wait until their host returns again. Peter tenses at the sound of a car door slamming, and Kate’s sharp eyes catch the movement immediately. “What do you hear?” She demands quietly, he ignores her.

He strains to listen for the sound of footsteps on stairs. The wolfsbane has weakened him considerably, but he is still able to make out the sound of humming, and something heavy being dragged down the steps. The bolts are thrown and the door swings wide open. This time their captor enters the room, far enough that even Kate can recognize him in the dim light.

He looks exactly as Peter had seen him last. Except everything is all wrong, the clothes too baggy on his thin frame, face gaunt and drawn in grief. Unnaturally bright eyes rimmed in black glare against pale skin. There is a fiery determination there, but all warmth is gone from his expression. He holds himself with equal parts stiff exhaustion and predatory grace. Peter is enthralled...and filled with trepidation.

_ “Stiles?” _

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out,” replies Stiles’ hollow voice, reminiscent of his awkward charm. “How’s it hanging Creeperwolf, enjoy your stay so far?”

“I wouldn’t exactly call it five stars,” Peter deadpans, “The company leaves much to be desired,” He adds, shooting a glare at Kate. For her part she remains silent, watching their interaction through narrowed eyes.

“Aw, I figured you two would get on like a house on fire,” Peter sneers at the idiom, though he's more distracted by the way Stiles is speaking. It’s Stiles' voice, but it doesn’t sound like him. Like a doll reading from a script, a child playing pretend. Peter wonders whose benefit the act is for. Stiles takes a step back and leans in the doorway to drag his cargo the rest of the way into the room. It takes a moment for Peter to recognize the unconscious form of Gerard Argent. “I brought you more company,”

“You really shouldn’t have,” Peter replies drolly.

“Don’t be ungrateful, Peter,” Stiles admonishes like he’s speaking to a child, “I’m feeling magnanimous today, don’t make me regret it.”

“Tell me...what’s  _ magnanimous _ about the situation I find myself in?” Peter instigates, he’ll be damned before he’s cowed by an unhinged teenager.

Stiles just blinks at him slowly, mouth twisted into a poor facsimile of a smile. “I’m gonna let you watch,” He replies finally. Without a word, he releases his hold on Gerard’s limp arm and approaches Peter unhesitantly. His heart remains steady as he maneuvers Peter around to check on the bindings and ensure they're still snuggly in place. Peter doesn’t struggle while he’s manhandled, but he does offer a half-hearted growl when Stiles adds. “Sit boy,” before turning back to Gerard’s prone form. 

Stiles grabs a thick chain from another wall, and with a strength he shouldn’t possess, sets to binding the old man’s wrists, and suspending him from one of the hooks in the ceiling. Then he levels Kate with a stare, head cocked to the side. “Are you going to cooperate and let me string you up like your dear old daddy, or do we need to do this the hard way?” 

Kate snarls wordlessly, a sound fit for a wolf, “ _ Get fucked you, little psychopath, _ ” she spits, straining against her bonds.

Stiles for his part places his hands on his hips and releases a put upon sigh, “Have it your way.” He relents before stalking toward her. Kate continues to thrash against the ropes, growling curses and insults as he nears. Without a moment's hesitation, he aims a swift kick at her unprotected abdomen, winding her. She falls over gasping, and he follows with a second kick to her head. The crack of her skull against the cinderblock wall satisfies something inside Peter. He finds he is suddenly not so concerned with his own predicament.  _ Magnanimous indeed _ .

Stiles pulls a knife from the pocket of his hoodie, and deftly cuts the ropes tying Kate’s wrists. Taking another chain, he repeats the process of binding her wrists and hanging her from another hook in the ceiling, facing her father. With both Argents strung up, toes dragging the floor, Stiles brushes his hands together, wiping away the grime after a job well done. He looks back to Peter with a wane smile. “I’ve got some homework to do, give me a holler when they’re both awake,” and breezes out of the cell without a second glance. The deadbolts are slid back into place. Even with his captives restrained the clever boy leaves nothing to chance. Peter feels begrudging respect for the little monster.

Sometime later Gerard jolts awake with a gasp that devolves into a pitiful coughing fit. It sounds like his lungs are filled with fluid, as his breathing turns ragged. The old man looks around in a panic, eyes landing first on his unconscious daughter, and then Peter who grins at him in response. “What is this?” Gerard starts, voice rough, then raising in volume, “Who the hell do you think you are?” He yells at the door, “Do you have any idea who I am?!  _ I will bury you!”  _ He’s thrashing now, spittle flying. Peter watches in amused disgust as the man works himself into a frothing rage, spitting curses between desperate coughs.

“Oh, would you shut up?” Peter finally snaps, “He knows exactly who you are, that’s precisely why you’re here, Argent.” Despite the pain in his head, Peter even manages an impressive eye roll.

“What are you planning, _ dog _ ?” The old hunter snarls, falling into another coughing fit that dredges up more of the black bile. “I know you’re involved in this, you  _ filthy motherf- _ ”

“Now now, there’s no need for name-calling, Gerard,” Peter soothes, smirking, “I assure you, I am very much here against my will. Though I  _ am _ enjoying the show thus far,” he adds leering. “That being said, I was informed that I should  _ ‘give a holler’ _ once you were both awake. Since dear Katherine is still napping, we will both just have to wait to see what’s in store for us.”

Gerard takes his suggestion with all of the grace that could be expected of a delusional zealot and proceeds to shout obscenities to the room at large. Peter hopes he chokes on his own blackened blood. Many agonizing minutes later, the old man finally tires out, falling silent. He is still plagued by coughing fits that seem to be exacerbated by the way his hands are bound above his head, and the sound of his heaving lungs has Peter’s teeth on edge. 

Eventually, Kate wakes with a pained groan, blinking sluggishly. She manages to slur, “That little  _ bastard! _ ” catching her father’s attention. 

Gerard looks at her accusingly, and demands, “What is this Kate? Where are we?  _ Who did this? _ ” He’s shaking as his voice steadily climbs in volume. It looks like he’s about to work himself into another fit when the door swings open again. 

Stiles saunters into the room, face devoid of expression. He glances around, then focuses on Peter, “I thought I told you to holler?” He asks innocently. 

“She only just woke up,” Peter tries not to sound petulant, “Besides the old bastard was doing enough yelling for the both of us as it was.” He glares at Gerard, who is staring at Stiles in stunned silence, eyes wide. 

“That’s fair,” Stiles relents before turning his attention to the two Argents, “Glad you could join us Gerard, Katherine.” Gerard barely has the wherewithal to retort before his head snaps to the side with a ringing slap. “You’ll speak when asked a question, and only then to tell the truth, capisce?” Stiles sneers, head cocked. His eyes are wild with rage, a far cry from the void expression he had worn into the room. 

“You little-” another slap, “I’ll fucki-” then a punch to Gerard’s solar plexus, that leaves him gasping for air. This triggers another coughing fit that dribbles more viscous black liquid down his chin. Peter is reminded of the easy strength Stiles exhibited earlier and hopes he didn’t hold back. 

Stiles smirks meanly, “Not looking so good there, Argent, you may want to save your strength, we’ve barely even begun,” Gerard’s gasping breaths are loud in the silence, but he keeps his mouth shut. Turns out you  _ can  _ teach an old dog new tricks. “Be right back,” Stiles chirps and heads through the open doorway. He returns a moment later with his schoolbag and baseball bat in tow. He’s humming some thoughtless tune as he shrugs out of his hoodie, placing it and his bag on a hook near the door. The bat is left against the wall as Stiles makes a second trip out of the room.

Peter is acquainted with a few of the improvements Stiles made to his weapon of choice. Runes to make the bat effective against incorporeal beings, to give his swing extra power, to slow the healing of any wounds it inflicts. He notes with interest that there are a few new sigils, including a particularly complex one he doesn’t recognize situated on the head of the bat. 

Stiles returns with a duffel bag, BHPD emblazoned on the side, and a milk crate. He closes the door with a kick, sets down both items, and takes a seat on the ancient-looking crate. Rolling up his flannel sleeves he looks like the picture of calm and casual. Then he places his elbows on his knees, leaning forward to address the room, typically restless fingers hanging unnaturally still. 

“So this is how it’s going to work.” Stiles begins conversationally, “I’m going to start by explaining a few things, why we’re here, how this is going to go, etcetera. And you will listen attentively without interruption. If you’re good, I’ll even open the floor to any questions you may have for me, and then we’re getting this show on the road, agreed?” Kate’s mouth is twisted in disgust, while Gerards curls his lip into a sneer, but neither speaks. 

Never knowing when to leave well enough alone, Peter speaks up, “Sir, yes sir.” his sarcastic tone is met by a withering look from Stiles. 

Stiles leans back then, getting comfortable on his perch, “We are gathered here today,” he begins, “Because all present are murderous fucking sociopaths.” Peter snorts, “Quiet you,” Stiles admonishes heatlessly. He opens the duffel bag and pulls out a file folder. “We are going to go through each of my questions, and you are going to answer  _ all _ of them  _ truthfully _ .”

Now Gerard snorts, “What you think you’re going to get us to confess? Have us put behind bars? You naive  _ child _ , there is nothing you can do. We’ll get off, we always do. Confessions under duress mean  _ nothing _ .” He’s snarling again, and Peter wonders idly if not a little of the bite had taken, leaving behind a few wolfen traits.

Stiles takes the interruption with grace, despite his earlier warning and replies coolly. “Oh, you don’t seem to understand Mr. Argent. You’re not leaving this room alive. These  _ confessions? _ They’re the  _ cherry _ on top of a sundae I’ve already made for myself. The only difference being how much of you is still intact when you finally leave this world for good. And it will be for good, Mr. Argent, I’m going to make sure of it.” He smiles then, showing off teeth that for a moment appear too sharp. It seems all at once to drop the temperature in the room several degrees. Peter is beginning to suspect that no one will be leaving this room alive. 

“ _ You little brat! You’ll never get away with- _ ” Gerard’s rant is cut off by a strangled gasp as taser prongs thump into his chest sending electricity pulsing through his body. Peter hadn’t even seen Stiles move, but sure enough, he’s holding a taser, connected to the prongs by delicate-looking wires. 

Following several seconds of twitching and gasping, Stiles finally releases the trigger. He smirks, “It’s not quite on par with that torture rig you guys had in the basement, but it’s portable,” He explains, then turns to look at Kate who’s watching him silently. “And I have a second one at my disposal, Kit-Kat, so you just keep being good for me, yeah?” He doesn’t wait for a response, she doesn’t offer one. Peter would be impressed with her restraint if he wasn’t itching to see her suffer as well. “Now, any questions?”

“Why are you doing this?” Gerard finally manages to gasp out, swallowing thickly.

Stiles’ expression turns incredulous, eyes narrowing at the older man. “You’re kidding right?” He asks, sneering. At Gerard’s stricken expression Stiles turns to meet Peter's gaze with a bewildered look. Peter just shrugs unhelpfully. Turning back to Gerard, “You’re like,  _ actually delusional.” _ The furrow in his brows is so much like the Stiles Peter knows, he wants to believe he’d imagined the empty look in the boy’s eyes earlier. Stiles just shakes his head, “I’m not gratifying that with an answer,  _ Jesus.  _ Any  _ other _ questions?”

Peter speaks up now, “Am  _ I _ making it out of here alive?” He asks genuinely.

Stiles looks at him for a moment considering, then states simply, “TBD”

“TBD” Peter deadpans.

“Cor-rect,” Stiles answers, drawing out the word with a nod of his head. Peter just sighs as if this entire thing is incredibly inconvenient for him, glad that the humans can’t hear the way his heart stutters at Stiles’ matter-of-fact tone. The Argents may underestimate the boy, but Peter has already learned that lesson the hard way. 

“Anything else? No? Wonderful, let’s get started.” He stands then, yanking the taser prongs out of Gerard's chest and places the open folder on the milk crate. Stiles reviews the files for a moment before walking over to pick up his bat humming again. Peter can’t place the tune, but it sounds similar to the one he was humming before. “Actually, before we get started let me warn you. I will know if you are lying to me.” Then he mocks a pout, looking between Kate and Gerard, “And lying  _ really _ hurts my feelings, it does.” His smile turns deadly, “So...Lie to  _ me _ and I’ll hurt  _ you.  _ Simple as that!” 

Then he brushes long fingers across several runes on the bat, lighting them up with power before settling it on his shoulder. “First things first!” turning to Kate, “Katherine Argent, did you orchestrate, plot, perpetrate, or otherwise participate in the arson murders of the Hale pack and subsequent cover-up?” 

Kate looks incredulous and mutinous in equal parts. She looks ready to lie for the sake of lying. Either the indecision shows on her face, or she takes too long to answer because Stiles is suddenly slamming the bat into her left knee with a sickening crunch. The raw scream that tears from her throat is all animalistic pain and indignation. The gasping noises she makes afterward are music to Peter’s ears. 

“Shall I repeat my question or-”

“ _**Yes**! _ ” She screams at him enraged,  _ “Yes, I fucking did it you little bastard, and I enjoyed every fucking second of it, is that what you want to hear? You sick **fuck**?” _

Ignoring the accusation, Stiles smiles at her indulgently, “ _ Thank you! _ ” he chirps, the cheery tone completely at odds with his actions. “Now, was Derek your only source of information? Or did you have other co-conspirators, wittingly or otherwise, within the Hale circle?”

Kate swallows thickly, but doesn’t hesitate this time, “Deaton,” She admits darkly, “How do you think the wards just happened to fail?” The admission takes Peter by surprise. He flinches before surging against his bonds, snarling and snapping. He  _ should have known _ . Suddenly he’s feeling much more invested in getting out of here alive so he can pay the vet a visit. 

Stiles ignores the predator at his back and continues, “And?”

Kate just blinks at him in shock, “And?” She chokes out, in protest, “That’s it  _ just- _ ” Another sickening crunch followed by a scream louder than the first. Stiles mangles her right knee this time. “ _ Oh God, oh my fucking god,” _ she sobs brokenly, screaming curses at him intermittently. Stiles just raises his brows, then raises his bat, “ **_Laura!_ ** ” she screams hoarsely, voice cracking with strain, “ _ Fucking Laura wanted to be Alpha!”  _ Kate’s head falls back as more heaving sobs wrack her frame.

All at once, Peter feels his world shift.  _ Laura _ . His baby niece, Laura. The one he’d spent two years mourning in shame. He’d  _ killed _ her in his insanity. He’d  _ regretted _ killing her and she’d been guilty the entire time. All to be Alpha.  _ A monster, just like him.  _ He struggles with the urge to howl in anguish and snarl in rage.  _ If he could just get out of these bonds to tear Kate apart! _

Stiles continues with his interrogation, ignoring Peter’s struggles. He turns to Gerard who is watching him warily, “Gerard Argent, did you orchestrate, plot, perpetrate, or otherwise participate in the arson murders of the Hale pack and subsequent cover-up?” 

Gerard is scowling, but he answers, “Yes,”

“Care to elaborate?”

Gerard growls, but seems wholly uninterested in the business end of Stiles’ bat and relents, “I was only aware of the plot after the fact. Kate came to me immediately after the fire and I helped her cover it up, greased a few palms, whispered in a few ears...”

Peter tunes out their voices as Stiles continues with other cases, other victims, other innocent families, decimated packs. His strength fails him and he sags against the wall. He had expected to succumb to the rage, as he had in the hospital, almost wished he would. But instead of a roaring flame, it sputters and sparks, finally being smothered beneath a detached numbness. He’s so tired.

Peter briefly takes notice when Deucalion is mentioned just in time for Gerard to foolishly lie about his involvement at the peace summit. Stiles strikes at his knee just as he’d done with Kate. The subsequent gasping screams trigger a coughing attack that leaves the man unable to draw a full breath for entire minutes. On and on Stiles inquires, combing through decades of crimes one at a time. Peter wonders how the boy has managed to compile even the most obscure cases, committed years before he was even born. He wonders if Stiles will ever stop surprising him. 

Finally, after what feels like hours to Peter, Stiles stops and considers the Argents, humming again. It sounds like a nursery rhyme, Peter thinks, but still can’t place the name or the lyrics. 

“Final question...addressed to the both of you,” Stiles adds, voice level and hard a steel, “Did you orchestrate, plot, perpetrate, or otherwise participate...in the murder of Sheriff Noah Stilinski?”

Peter sucks in a ragged breath in shock. He hadn’t known,  _ when had this happened? “Stiles,”  _ he croaks, numbness giving way to emotion. But his quiet outburst is quickly swallowed up by the sounds of Kate’s denial. 

“That was an  _ accident _ , the sheriff had a  _ car accident _ , we had nothing to do with that!” She's crying desperately as if her fate isn’t already sealed. “We had  _ nothing _ to do with it, he’s the sheriff for Christ's sake, even we aren’t that untouchable!” She’s sobbing pitifully now, and Peter can’t wait for Stiles to put her out of their misery. Gerard however has remained silent.  _ Oh. _

Stiles turns to Gerard, face drawn. He looks paler now, eyes dark with hateful intent. “Gerard? Care to share with the class?” He asks sweetly. 

Gerard breathes deeply and tries, “Now Stiles,” He simpers, “You’re father wouldn’t have wanted this for you. Noah was a just man, a-”

“ _**Don't you dare talk about my fucking father! You keep his name out of your filthy mouth!** ”  _ Stiles screams, spit flying, all traces of humanity slipping away. His eyes bleed solid black, teeth too sharp. Whatever stands before them wears Stiles' face and his rage like a mask, but it is not Stiles. 

It stops then, closing its too black eyes and takes a deep calming breath. When they open again they’re Stiles’ own honey brown color. He smiles cruelly. “My apologies, where are my manners? I’m ignoring the rules. You hurt me and I’m supposed to hurt you in turn.” Gerard is gasping and choking in terror at the outburst. Piss dribbling down his pants reflexively. 

Stiles sneers at the puddle forming, disgusted, before turning to stalk a circle around Gerard. He’s humming again, picking up a frantic tempo as his eyes flash wildly. The energy pouring off of him is erratic and unstable. He reeks of the same sickly-copper scent Peter woke to after his coma. Thoughts reduced to base concepts like  _ need, hurt, anger, hunger.  _ Peter aches to comfort him, to soothe the burning rage he’s altogether too familiar with. But he holds his tongue, allows Stiles his moment. Peter’s purpose here is to witness. He finally places the name of the song. 

Stiles’ humming gives way to singing, voice barely raised above a whisper.“Knick-knack Katie-Cat, give a wolf a bo-one, This old man came rolling ho-ome,” Stiles brings the bat down across Gerard’s chest, snapping ribs like twigs, knocking out a breath he can’t seem to catch. The boy continues to stalk around his prey, bat tapping on his shoulder. He sings louder, “This old man, he played three, He played knick-knack on my,”  _ Crunch _ “Knee!” Gerard barely has the breath to gurgle, black liquid bubbly around his lips. Stiles continues. “This  _ old man! _ ” he snarls in Gerard’s face, “He played ni-ine, He played knick-knack on my,”  _ Thunk  _ “Spine!” The blow causes Gerard's legs to spasm violently.

“P-please,” Gerard begs, eyes rolling, tears streaming down his face. Kate is steadily sobbing a barely audible litany of “ _ Oh god _ ,  _ oh god” _ that Stiles pays no mind to. He only has eyes for Gerard, “ _ Please...Stiles _ …” the hunter pleads again.

Stiles just laughs, cruel and angry. He completes his circuit, stopping in front of Gerard, smiling. He tosses the bat into a spin, catching it by the handle with practiced ease. His left hand skates across the length of the weapon, lighting up several more runes with power. The strange sigil Peter noticed on the end of the bat is glowing hellfire red. With both hands, Stiles lifts the bat up over his head and brings it down hard on Gerard’s skull. Then again, and again, and again. His eyes have bled black as he reduces the hunter’s head to a bloody stump. Stiles doesn’t stop until his own breathing comes heavily and his arms shake with the strain. Finally, he drops the bat, allowing it to roll across the uneven floor. Tears are streaming down his face as his eyes flicker from black to brown and back again. 

He turns to Peter, eyes filled with void, looking incredibly fragile...lost. Every bit the child he hasn’t been in a long time. He stumbles over to Peter then, hand going to a knife in his pocket, and Peter flinches, realizing his fate must have been determined. Stiles sinks to his knees in front of the wolf, strangled breaths wracking his frame, but determination burning in his eyes. They haven’t changed back to brown yet, and that worries Peter more than his own impending demise. 

Finally, Stiles reaches around Peter, slicing the ropes binding his wrists, and slumps against the wall next to him like a puppet with his strings cut. Were it not for his quiet whimpers Peter would suspect the teen had given in to his exhaustion. With his arms freed, Peter drags his hands in front of him to rub at the bloodied and torn wrists. The wounds will heal with a little tending to. Stiles offers him the knife, which he takes silently, and sets to work on the ropes binding his legs. 

Stiles speaks up then, voice wrecked, “She’s yours,” A flick of his hand to indicate Kate. The huntress in question hangs across from her father silently, eyes devoid of recognition. Seems the bitch checked out of reality at some point. 

Peter stands then, stumbling, unsteady on burning limbs. His vision darkens at the edges as blood rushes in all directions. He remains still for a moment, waiting for the weakness to pass. 

Stiles speaks again, “See that symbol on the end of the bat?” He mutters, words slurred with exhaustion. 

“I’d noticed it,” Peter replies coolly. 

“Very old, very obscure, very,” A shuddering breath, “frowned upon...”

“What does it do?” Peter asks. He has his quarry in his sight, and yet he waits. His earlier frantic rage and even detached emptiness have been replaced by a resigned calm. 

The bitch can wait. She’ll get her turn.

“It completely obliterates the soul. Poof. Gone. No afterlife, no resurrection, nothing. Like you never existed at all. Gone for good.” Peter looks down at him, gaze considering. Stiles turns wet eyes up at him, brown again. He smiles wanly. “Bring it here and I’ll power the old girl up for ya.”

Peter does as he’s told, limping to pick up the bat and bring it back to Stiles. He puts it within Stiles’ reach, but instead of grabbing it or running his hand along the bloodied shaft, he touches the sigil on the end briefly, bringing it to life. 

“Don’t think you need all the damage amplifiers,” he explains, breath still too shallow, “Besides,” he adds, “I don’t think I’ve got the juice for another full power-up.” 

Peter nods, then hesitates. “Did you really intend to kill me?” He asks, voice steady.

“I hoped I wouldn’t have to,” Stiles offers, sighing, “You needed to be here, to see this, but if you’d lost control again, I would have.” He blinks slowly, turning up his chin to better look at Peter, baring his throat. 

Peter should be angry but can’t bring himself to feel anything but weary understanding. What shocks him is the feeling of gratitude that follows. They are going to have a very long talk after this.  Peter turns from Stiles and makes his way over to Kate. Standing before her, he wonders if she’s aware of what’s going on around her, if she recognizes Peter at all. She remains motionless, eyes unfocused, and heartbeat thready. Peter is surprised to find he doesn’t care. Eight years of pain and rage, all come down to this. A broken woman gifted to him by a broken boy. Finally, he finishes what she started, not with claws or teeth, but with a Spark. 

**Author's Note:**

> So how was it? Are your eyes bleeding yet? I don't have a Beta because I'm too embarrassed to ask anyone to look at this before I post it...So if you see any obvious mistakes feel free to let me know in the comments. I'm also not opposed to constructive criticism, within reason...please be gentle, it's my first time.
> 
> It's not super obvious in the story, but basically, Kate doesn't "die" in s1, Stiles doesn't get possessed in s3, and then the Sheriff is murdered and it's ruled an accident. Stiles agrees/succumbs to the Nogitsune's possession in exchange for the power to take revenge on those responsible. Peter is along for the ride to witness Stiles ride eternal on the Fury Road, JK. Pre Steter if you squint. I doubt I'll continue this, but if you actually enjoy it let me know, I could be persuaded. It would definitely be Steter then though.
> 
> The title and lyrics at the beginning are from "Bury Me Face Down" by Grandson, I highly recommend his work!


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